


Three Weeks

by thehotinpsychotic



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1882014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehotinpsychotic/pseuds/thehotinpsychotic





	Three Weeks

“Suicide Note: 10th Revision

Sorry Mom, and Dad. You know I love you.

I know that I have things to live for. My parents, my friends (HA), my family. Notice that these are all people, and none of them are me. I have to stop living for other people. You think suicide is selfish, what’s really selfish is people trying to guilt me into living through more years of misery for people who can, physically speaking, live without me.

Up until this point, my life has been in vain. I can think of no worse punishment than living a life completely ordinary. I’d get an average job, meet a regular boy (of course under society’s impression that all girls are needy and desperate to be loved), have a normal family, and die a usual death. I’m not going for ordinary, because no one cares about ordinary. People want unconventional lives, whether they be tragic or not. I’m shooting for a tragic, but extraordinary, death, since my life can’t meet these requirements.

I’d never be able to settle down. Boys are afraid of me, and until now, I’ve never quite understood why. Now I know what it is. Boys live their entire lives being given whatever they want and having everybody bend over backwards to suit their needs. As they grow older, they are taught that someday, a girl will fly into his arms with an unflinching submissiveness and eternal obedience and adoration towards him. Consider this: the boy meets a girl he likes, and he’s waiting for her to confess her undying love and compliance to him. He’s waiting, and it doesn’t happen. He’s figuring she’s just shy (I could complain about how we think anxiety and similar health disorders are just a cute and desirable quirk, but I won’t), so he continues to wait. He starts off with the expectancy and enthusiasm like that of a puppy waiting for the return of his owner who had left and never returned. Like the dog, his tail falls, and his jaw droops. His eyelids grow heavy, and his feet sore from standing. He then, tail tucked between his legs, gives in.

Do you want to know why? Because this girl doesn’t want or need any man’s approval. And to men, who are taught the complete opposite, it’s terrifying, and disappointing. Some men grow resentful and rape. Others get discouraged and give up. Either way, they won’t stay with that girl, because they need to be in a position of power, and this is just a plain scenario where that won’t happen.

Sorry, I know I’m going all over the place. My thoughts are gems that simply cannot be withheld by the demanding law of organization and structure. They cannot be classified, cannot be restrained by labels.

No, this isn’t solely because of It. Yes, that was admittedly more than a setback in my life, but it didn’t hold any power over my life, so it shouldn’t have any authority towards my death.

I don’t even want to think about my funeral, but one single thing has to be addressed: DON’T INVITE MY SCHOOLMATES. They didn’t like me when I was alive, so they shouldn’t pretend to like me when I’m gone.

I’m really sorry things had to go this way.”

My finger hovers over the print button. I could always just off myself now, spare myself some time and more excruciating anticipation. But, I decide not to, for I have a very special date picked. I click save instead, and close my lap top, setting it on my night stand.

I stare up at my ceiling. It’s been almost two years since Ithappened. It’s hard to believe. And yet, I still carry the scars, and people still look at me, people who hardly know me, like I’m literally on the brink of dying. Little do they know how close to my demise I actually am.

Three more weeks. That’s all. I tell myself this over and over as I get myself up for school the next morning, stepping into my uniform. I fix my hair in the car, combing my fingers through the dark pixie cut.

“So… Reagen….” Mother starts tentatively.

“I have a test first period, so I have to hurry,” I lie, studying my cuticles. It’s not like they’re really that interesting, but I have a gut feeling that she’s going to bring It up.

“Honey, just remember, that’s all behind you. Yes, he did a horrible, horrible thing but…..” Mother’s voice wavers. “It doesn’t change who you are.”

Great, another sentimental speech about how It doesn’t have to control my life. If one more person tells me that it can only rule me if I let it, I will scream. I want to go off on my mom, telling her that I don’t need sympathy. I’m tired of it. But instead, I just tell,

“Thanks, mom. I love you”, because I’m aware of the fact that she’s just trying to help the best that she can.

“Love you too, Reagen,” Mother responds, tearing up as she waves goodbye to me. She always cries when we talk about It.

I walk into the school, gripping the straps of my backpack so tightly that my knuckles slowly become albicant. Just being inside this Hellhole churns my stomach. Years of being teased, ignored, and betrayed all resonate through my mind. I still can’t go past the locker rooms without it sending shivers down my spine.

I make my way through halls congested with kids, all with better clothes, better social lives, and, finally, better lives than me. I get, count, only three looks of pity, and four of judgment. I make it to Spanish , to see that the teacher isn’t there yet. Only one or two kids are in the room, one a girl chipmunk cheeked girl quietly reading, her eyes sealed to the book, and another is a boy with a fair complexion who stares out the window with languish.

I sigh as I cross the room, sitting at my spot in front of the room. You think that after It, teachers would maybe take pity on me, assign me the helpless victim role, and assume that I’m innocent and inspiring enough to sit in the back row. But no, I remain in the front row. The Spanish teacher is a burly man known as being a bit overly orthodox, so I’m assuming he doubts that I would be able to keep my legs shut if he put me in the back.

Kaitlin Levine enters the room, blond hair parted meticulously down the center. She’s wearing about two pounds of makeup as usual. Girls, and boys, for that matter, wear makeup if you want to, but just please make sure it looks good. Oh, Kaitlin’s always looks perfect. Her eyeliner never smears, lip stain never dries, and her cover up never rubs off. It’s just a little much for my taste. She looks like a Barbie doll, and has the mind of one too, only thinking about shopping, boys, and animals.

As she strides confidently down the aisle, wedges clapping hard against the wooden floor, a single word slithers out of her mouth as she passes me.

“Slut.”

She sits just a few seats over with me. Under normal circumstances, I’d just let her be the bitch that she is and not retaliate. But today is not a normal circumstance. It’s T minus 2 weeks and 6 days until doomsday. So, being on the shit list of the most prominent girl in the school isn’t really a concern of mine anymore.

“You know, love has four letters, too,” I point out.

She curls her upper lip into a sneer, her delicate nose crinkling slightly at the bridge. “Excuse me, whore?”

I can sense that the other kids in the room are watching now. They’re kind of making me nervous, making me feel like I’m performing or something. But I decide to keep going, just to see the look on her snotty face when she realizes that the world, contrary to popular belief, does not resolve solely around her.

“Love. It’s four letters, just like the word slut. One word less than the letter whore. So, with your first insult, in the same amount of energy, you could’ve said love, rather than viciously spewing hate at me like the venomous bitch you are,” I reply. “You know, it’s not hard to show compassion.”

“You’re such a freak,” she scoffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she retrieves her trusty I Phone and begins to text someone who probably hates me as well.

I turn my head to the front of the room, noticing that the teacher has yet to arrive. Even she doesn’t want to be here.

I wonder if teachers dread school just as much as pupils do. For most students, they’re stressing over a test, or some assignment that they have yet to finish, and maybe even a certain class that they know they are bound to fail.

But teachers, they face not only other staff members, but the students. Students can be downright cruel, especially to any figure of authority. I’m sure that some “bad boy” who thinks he’s hot shit will talk back to the teacher and get the class to laugh. I wonder if teachers ever go home and just cry over how they’re treated. I have an immense guilt towards them; the kind where you’ve done nothing wrong, but you still feel at fault.

Not only that, but they probably face losing their job at least once in their career. Most times, it’s likely just that some students who don’t listen in class blame their educator rather than themselves. What bothers me most that if one student decided to get a teacher fired, they probably could. Whether it be through lies or blackmail, I’m sure that if they really applied themselves to the task of getting them to lose their job, they definitely would be able to.

When I come to from my thoughts, I notice that the classroom is full, and I’m flanked on either side by a boy who is probably fantasizing about grabbing our teacher, Ms. Daniels, by the wrists and fucking her over the desk.

She’s young, and pretty, with dark hair and fair skin. Her dress sense always seems like it was pulled off a mannequin minutes before, and her smile is always present. She has a line of freckles along her cheekbone that I’m sure all of the straight boys and gay girls would just love to suck on.

I feel bad for her, like the staff doesn’t quite treat her the same because of her age. She’ll make an attempt to talk to them outside in the hall, coffee cups clutched tightly in fists, and they just kind of brush her off like she’s some annoying little moth. She’s one of the smartest people I know, and that’s coming from a pretentiously avid reader and researcher, so it says a lot.

When class is over and the social kids swing their backpacks over their shoulder and stampede towards the door, while the other, more reserved students tuck their books to their chest and slowly shuffle away, Ms. Daniels calls me to her desk.

I collect my things and walk up, my steps cautious so as not to bump into any tables or chairs. “You wanted me?”

She leans forward, telling, “I’m worried about you, Reagen.”

“Me too, everyone is,” I reply. “But I assure you, your concern, while considerate, is not necessary, for I am perfectly fine, thank you, better than I’ve ever been, and at the very pinnacle of my high school career, better than I ever will be.”

“Reagen,” she responds. She sets herself back in her chair, telling, “I’ve been noticing that you, a straight A student, have suddenly stopped trying in here. You didn’t do too hot on your last test. And, you look sad, to be quite honest.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, stumbling over myself as I back up. “I’m great, honest. You don’t have to worry, you’re wasting your worries, use them on the starving HIV infected children in Africa, not on a privileged, white girl.”

“Take care of yourself, Reagen. And let me know if you need anything, okay?” Ms. Daniels orders.

“I will, I promise,” I assure. I’m heading towards the door when Ms. Daniels calls,

“Wait!”

I pivot, asking, “Yes?”

“Let me give you my number. Just… promise, if you really need something, you’ll call,” Ms. Daniels instructs.

I snatch the paper, half lying as I agree, “Fine.” I leave with the strip of paper clutched tightly in my fist, the ink smearing onto my palm.

I trudge down the halls to my next class, which is English II. I’m not too thrilled, just focused on going home.

I stop at the bathroom on my way there, swinging the heavy oak door open .

When I sit down in the stall, there I see, written in permanent marker above the toilet paper dispenser.

“Reagen Bennett is a dirty slut.”

I sigh, digging a marker out of my bag. I’m about to scribble over it, but I stop myself, allowing the tip to levitate a centimeter from the R in Reagen. All I can think is, in 2 weeks and 6 days, whoever wrote this is going to feel really sorry. So I decide to let whoever live with the guilt, and let it plague whoever will come into this stall.

They’ll go, “Oh my, how awful!” and then continue with their day. The next time they see it, they’ll be moderately taken aback. But the third time, they won’t even bat an eye.

I sit down in English, this time, my spot is in the back row, by the window. I like to gaze out of it, and Mrs. Winters doesn’t seem to mind. On days when I want to hurl myself bodily out of it, I ask Mrs. Winters if I can change seats to a spot away from the window. She’ll ask, “Oh, are you chilly?” And I’ll nod my head yes, although anyone close enough and paying enough attention would see that my eyes are screaming, “No, it’s just that right now, flinging myself through and/or out of it seems pretty ideal, and I don’t trust myself enough to sit next to a loaded gun.”

The period is ordinary, and the entire day serves to be boring and typical as well. The most exciting thing that happens is seeing a squirrel narrowly dodge a car on its way across the street.

My mom is always there to pick me up at 3:32 sharp every day, and this day is no different. I hop into the seat, shutting the door.

“How was your day, sweetie?” my mom asks.

“Extravagant,” I reply flatly.

My mother sighs and shakes her head, rolling her eyes at me. “I really wish you weren’t so sarcastic sometimes.”

“Oh? You want me to be serious? Because I can be serious,” I inform. I start to fake cry, thrusting my hands into the air as I scream, “Father! Please stop hitting me! I promise I’ll be good!”

“For God’s sake, Reagen!” Mom snaps. “I’ve had enough with this attitude of yours. You, honey, need to get it in gear.”

“Kind of hard to get it in gear when you’re out of fuel,” I mutter.

My mother scoffs, pulling into our driveway. I turn to get out, but she grabs my head, pleading, “Listen, Reagen. Once we get in, we have to talk about something. And just so you know, even if you don’t agree with your father and I, there’s no way out of this.”

“There’s always a way,” I respond, my voice steady.

My mother gives me a look that says “Reagen, I know you’re my daughter but you’re such a handful and I’m tired of putting up with you.”

As we walk inside the house, I find myself twiddling my fingers, nervous about what the big announcement is. They’re getting divorced? A relative died? No wait, the death scenario has really nothing to do with disagreements and not being able to worm out of it. I think back to the other times I’d had a talk with my parents as a reference for what this one could be about. And not a sitcom talk, but like a late night TV drama talk.

Last time I had a “talk” with my parents, my cat had died. It’d ran into the middle of the street, and a car came by and hit it. My parents had tried to keep me from finding out until they had a chance to talk to me, but on the walk home from school that day, it was kind of difficult not to notice Whiskers smeared across the pavement.

I sit down at the kitchen table, the chair groaning beneath me. I cross my legs at the ankles, figuring that whatever this is about, I better be comfortable for it.

My parents sit across the table, holding each other’s hands. My dad’s wedding ring sits comfortably on his ring finger, but my mom doesn’t even wear one. She insists this is because it’d be an absolute tragedy if it went missing, but really, everyone but my dad knows it’s because the ring doesn’t fit on her finger quite right and she was too polite to ever tell him.

So they claim that communication is the best tool humans have, and that without it, we’re no more than Neanderthals, but Mom can’t even tell Dad that the ring doesn’t fit .

Yep. That’s my parents. Utter hypocrites.

“Hello, Reagen,” Dad greets. I can tell he’s trying to be nice by the way his voice is all soft and his eyebrows the slightest bit tilted.

“Dad,” I answer. I lean back in my chair, asking, “So, what’s this all about?”

Mom gives Dad a hesitant look, and he squeezes her hand. She smiles at him and looks back at me. Bleh. As if one little hand maneuver could, in any situation, say anything at all.

“Reagen, we’ve been noticing you’re a bit….” Mom’s eyes scan the ceiling as she searches for the right word. Crazy? Clinically depressed? Borderline sociopath??? “Troubled.”

“The word is alternative,” I smirk.

My dad narrows his eyes at me and gives a little shake of the head, which is his warning glare.

“Your father and I are doing the best we can. And we think, right now, that the best thing to do would be to send you to another school. A private school,” she adds. “You’re already enrolled, you start Thursday. You’re cleaning out your locker Wednesday after school.”

I don’t scream. I don’t argue. I don’t swear my ever burning passion and loyalty to my current school district or any of its inhabitants.

I say, “Interesting.”

My parents chuckle, both of them loosening up.

“So, you’re willing to do it?” Dad asks.

I nod. “I’m okay with that.”

The next few days are all a blur. I distinctly remember Kaitlin Levine looking good in front of the teachers by giving me a giant hug goodbye and dramatically lying,

“I will miss you soooo much, Reagen!”

The night before going to my new school, I sleep better than a baby could ever dream of. ­­­

 

The next day my mom wakes me up extra early so I have plenty of time to get ready for school. Seriously; it’s only ten minutes away, and I don’t have to be there until 8:30, but she gets me up at six. Again, I know she’s just trying to be helpful so I thank her and get up when it’s still Goddamn dark out.

She drives me over, leaving the house at 8:00. It’s pretty quiet the entire drive there, me gazing out the window and my mom tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.

We pull up to the school, a stout, but also tall building that recently received a new music wing. My mom looks like she wants to hug me, her arms reaching for me, but she drops the left arm, and gives me a pat on the shoulder with the right.

“Wouldn’t want to embarrass you on your first day,” she says, her grin infectious enough that it manages to spread onto my face as well, known for its smile immunity.

“Bye, Mom,” I call, hopping out. A millisecond before I shut the door, my mother replies,

“Bye, Reagen.”

I watch the car drive off, gas pumping in thick white clouds from the exhaust pipe. The car makes a turn that leaves it out of my sightline, so I go inside finally.

I find my way to the third floor office with relative ease. I was given instructions to report here for my schedule and my guide, who will be wearing an orange wrist band.

When I get to the office, no one is there but the secretary. Perhaps the guide fell ill? Believe it or not, even our bravest heroes, public high school tour guides, are susceptible to disease. Oh, bless them.

“Hello,” the secretary greets. She’s a woman with greying hair wearing a button down blue blouse with a neutral pencil skirt.

I wave at her, replying, “Hi. I’m Reagen Bennett, and I’m here to pick up my schedule.”

She goes into her filing cabinet, muttering to herself. I manage to catch, “Reagen Bennett Reagen Bennett ReagenBennettReagenBennetReaganBennett……”

She produces a sheet of paper, which she hands to me. “I can’t say I know where your guide is.”

Not a second after, the rumbling of footsteps cause both her and I to crane our necks to peer behind me where the sound had come from.

There before me stands the most gorgeous boy my eyes could ask for. He has pale, clear skin and high cheekbones. His hair is dark brown, the kind that would look black in poor lighting. He has blond streaks towards his cowlick where the hair parts and in chunks in the back. The locks hanging down his neck and forehead curl on the ends, giving him the appearance of a little boy. As he smiles, deep dimples form on either cheek. He has stormy teal eyes that shine like none other.

He’s wearing a red button down with a black blazer. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing the orange bracelet that, under different circumstances, would hardly be visible. His skinny jeans cling to his narrow legs and are cuffed at the ankles to show off his red hi top Chuck Taylors.

He grins at me toothily, and although I don’t plan on it, I find myself smiling back.

The secretary, clearly unimpressed, chides in a monotone, “You’re late, Ashton.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “I had to drop my baby brother off at daycare.”

As if the boy could get any better. Not only is he a babe, but he’s apparently a total sweetheart as well.

The secretary remains disgruntled by his general presence. “You’re lucky Reagen wasn’t early.” She extends a paper to Ashton, which he takes, thanking her.

“Let’s go, Reagen,” Ashton says, nodding his head towards the door.

I follow him out, and he looks through the paper that the secretary gave him. I peek over, asking,

“So, what is that?”

“A reminder to stay after school. She’s my mom,” Ashton explains.

“Wow, really?” I ask. “Sorry, I know it’s probably not what a son wants to hear, but your mother seems to have nothing but utter contempt for you.”

He laughs, a real, easy sound. He’s not afraid of laughing too loud or too strange. He admits, “That would suck to hear, if she were my mother.”

“Wait, she’s not your mom?” I ask. “You just said she was.”

He shrugs. “I’m a compulsive liar. They just come to me. My therapist says I do it for attention, which my actual mother never gave me.” His lips upturn into another grin as he continues, “All maternal issues and personality flaws aside, welcome to our high school.”

“Gee, what a welcome,” I scoff.

“My name’s Ashton Riley, and I’m your tour guide. So…. Let’s see what your first class is…..” He makes a tutting sound with his mouth as his eyes go down what must be a copy of my schedule in his hands. “I see you’re a sophomore. I’m an idiot junior, so maybe we’ll have some classes together.”

I chortle, agreeing, “Yeah, maybe.”

“English II first period….. Mr. Riley’s room. That’s on the fourth floor, I’ll take you there,” he says. He grabs onto the loop of fabric on top of my backpack, explaining, “So you don’t get lost.”

We’re on our way up the steps when a passing boy snickers,

“Hey Ashton, cute dog. Can I pet it?”

Ashton scoffs and pushes past him, taking my hand. “Don’t listen to him; he’s a jerk.”

“Are there a lot of them here?” I ask.

Ashton considers this, then shakes his head. “No. Even the popular kids are nice here. The mean ones are the hoodrats, like that lovely boy that we encountered a few moments ago.”

I chuckle, “That’s good to know.”

“You have a gorgeous laugh, like that of a princess in a Victorian novella,” he compliments.

“Thanks, I’ve never been so uniquely admired before,” I thank.

He beams at this, stuffing his hands into his pockets and shrugging his shoulders bashfully, replying, “What can I say, I’m a unique guy.”

I’m huffing and puffing by the third floor, my breathing coming out choppy and parted. Ashton kneels in front of me.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Hop on,” he orders, patting his back.

I laugh, telling, “I’m flattered that you think I’m so incompetent, but I’ll live.”

Ashton stands, saying in a serious tone, “I in no way find you incompetent.”

I stare at him, eyes wide.

He breaks out into a grin, adding, “’Kay?” and holding out his hand for me to take, which I accept. He drags me up the rest of the stairs, calling in between labored breaths, “Newbie coming through! Unadjusted, disoriented newbie! Who is  _not_ used to stairs!”

We get to the final floor, and I can tell by the heat in my cheeks that my face is, at best, pastel pink, and at worst, tomato red.

“Thanks for walking me up,” I say, looking Ashton in the eyes.

“My pleasure, ya’ little weirdo,” he replies, ruffling my hair slightly. He leaves, and I’m honestly quite sad to see him go. I’m turn, and am almost in the room when I feel someone grab my shoulder. I look over, to see Ashton. I face him, jutting one hip out. “Yes?”

“Do you want to go out with me, strange girl?” Ashton asks. He states it as if he were conversing with his table mates about the menu.  _Timothy, what would you prefer for appetizers, the gluten free popcorn shrimp, or the calamari?_

I tickle his stomach, and he squirms away, the smile still indelible on his face. “Didn’t your mom tell you not to talk to strangers, let alone date them?”

“I’m a rule breaker,” Ashton replies.

I giggle, contemplating the idea. I’m about to say yes, when I realize what I should’ve earlier. I’ll be gone in under three weeks. I shouldn’t even be making friends, as I’ll end up hurting them in the end. It’s selfish, to have a boyfriend for my amusement and then leave him. I’m a bitch just for leading him on.

I also realize that Ashton is no normal boy. He’s not afraid of me. I’m not yearning for him, and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. He’s not going to make me want him, either. He’s just going to act like a man and accept the fact that I’m not hopelessly in love with him, or at least acting like it. The fact that Ashton is extraordinary somehow makes everything worse. I can’t ruin a gem like him. That’d be the equivalent of shitting on the Mona Lisa.

So, I tell him no. “I cannot date you, Ashton Riley.” His mouth drops open a bit, and his forehead creases. He reaches for my arm, and seeing this, I turn before he can, hurrying into my class.

 

I’m walking to lunch, about to partake in the delicious consumption of the almighty beef fingers, when I’m ambushed by Ashton.

He follows me until I sit down at an empty table, parking himself on the seat right next to me.

I turn and give him a mock smile. “Hi, Ashton.”

“Hey,” he exhales with a breath, oblivious to my sarcasm. He flicks his hair and grins back, asking, “Have you changed your mind yet, little girl?”

I shake my head. “I’m sure you’re not told this a lot, but no.”

Ashton perks his eyebrows up, furrowing them into a quizzical expression. “What do you mean ‘I’m not told this a lot’?”

I sigh, dismissing, “Never mind.”

“No, really,” Ashton insists, grabbing my forearm. “Tell me.”

I raise my eyebrows, and admit, “You’re a pretty boy.”

“Are you trying to insult me?” Ashton smirks. He bats his lashes and adds, “Because it’s not working. Tell me I’m a pretty boy. The prettiest boy you’ve ever seen.”

“You are,” I repeat, and he blushes a little and looks down. “That’s the thing. You’re the type of guy who has everything go your way. Good grades, nice family, I’m sure even your adolescent bourn acne is under control.” He looks up at me as I continue, “I’m not the same breed as you, Ashton. I’m the girl who never gets her way. I’m always disappointed. I’m always angry. You’re a theme park, and I’m just a crack in the sidewalk.”

Ashton considers this, sitting quietly, gazing off at the wall. After about twenty seconds of pure silence, me expecting him to get upset and respond with examples of times things haven’t gone his way, Ashton blurts,

“So, you’re a part of me.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Do you have any friends coming?” Ashton interrupts, switching subjects, whether it be purposely or not.

“What? No,” I answer truthfully.

“Have you made any friends?” Ashton asks quietly.

“Why would you care?” I mumble.

Ashton delicately takes a strand of hair from my eyes, tucking it carefully behind my ear. “Because you’re a beautiful person. I don’t like to see beautiful people be hurt.”

“I’m not hurt, okay?” I lie, guilt twinging in my voice.

“Never said you were,” Ashton replies calmly. He tilts his eyebrows into a sympathetic look, adding, “But I don’t ever want you to be.”

“This is very sweet and all, Ashton, but I’m not looking for a boyfriend,” I admit.

“Why?” Ashton asks. “Do you not like boys?”

“Well, no,” I confess.

“You’re asexual?” Ashton guesses.

“No,” I repeat.

“Then what?” Ashton wonders.

“Look, I just don’t want to date you, okay? Or any boy for that matter!” I exclaim. I notice some people glancing over, so I lower my voice as I proceed, “Ashton, I’m really at a strange point in my life right now.” Yeah, about two weeks before your untimely death is a strange time to be alive.

“Hey, that’s fine,” Ashton assures. He raps his knuckles on the table, trailing off with, “So, you aren’t looking for a boyfriend.”

He peers over at me with his greenish blue eyes, the right corner of his mouth curling up into a crooked smile. “I’ve not given up on you yet. Just remember that, contrary to popular belief, Ashton Riley  _does not_ get everything he wants.” He stands up, finishing, “But I’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.” With that, he walks away. I don’t see him for the rest of the school day.

My mom drives me home, which reminds me all too much of my old school and its corresponding routine. I go directly to my room, wanting nothing more than to curl up in my faded duvet with my battered but personality filled copy of 1984 and disappearing into the world of George Orwell. Unfortunately, I’m not in there for twenty minutes when my mom calls up the stairs,

“Reagen! You have a visitor!”

I saunter down the stairs, wondering who it is. No one really sees me. Ever. I haven’t had a friend over since sixth grade. Once upon a time I had a lab partner over sometime after It happened. He tried to touch me, assuming that because of It my standards were low enough for him to meet. I swore him out, forced him to leave and accepted a D on the assignment that I did not deserve.

I enter the living room, not sure what to expect. As I walk in, I know that it will be a bit of surprise no matter who it is, and remind myself to stay calm.

And when I see Ashton Riley sitting with my mom, chatting about the superior czar Ikea and drinking English Afternoon Tea, I choke on my own spit.

Ashton spots me while he’s talking about this gorgeous stained mahogany mantle he saw the other day window shopping and grins. He excuses himself from my mom, taking another sip of his tea, which I can see is saturated with sugar. He gazes at me, greeting,

“Reagen, darling!”

“Hi,” I reply through gritted teeth. Ashton came to my house. I never told him where I live. He invited himself in and figured he’d be welcome. Who the Hell does that?

“You’re probably wondering why I would go to such an extent to visit you,” Ashton tells so convincingly that I wonder if he can read my mind. I send a telepathic message for him to say “weasel” if he can read my thoughts.

He must not receive this particular psychic message, as he continues on with, “I was given your phone number as I’m your school guide, so I decided to call. It was your home phone number, so your mom picked up, who was kind enough to invite me over.”

“How nice of her,” I respond. I glare at my mom, and then ask Ashton, “Will you excuse us ladies?”

Ashton stands, taking his tea with him as eh exits the room.

“Mom, why’d you invite a boy you don’t even know over?” I hiss, trying not to be overheard by Ashton, who’s wandered off to God knows where. “He could be a serial killer! Or a rapist! Or a salesman!”

“Reagen, calm down,” my mom orders. “He’s a nice boy.”

“I never said he wasn’t,” I point out.

“Then why on earth are you so opposed to having him over here?” Mother questions.

“He wants to date me,” I admit, lowering my voice.

My mom’s jaw drops. Her lips finally upturn into a goofy grin. “Aw, he wants to go out with you? You just have to say yes!”

“I don’t want to!” I whine, not caring how immature and ungrateful I sound. I’m probably the only person in the world who would ever turn down Ashton Riley. If I’m being honest, even heterosexual boys would start a revolution to get with him.

“Reagen, you have this incredible boy who’s obviously interested. Why are you dragging your feet?” Mom reasons.

Maybe because I don’t want to have him weeping over my coffin. “I’m just not looking for a relationship right now.”

“Then tell me, when are you?!” my mom cries, seeming to surprise herself with her aggressive tone of voice.

I feel so guilty I could cry at that moment. A realization strikes me like a truck. My mom is never going to have any grandchildren.

 

There’s a long silence between my mom and I. She’s in her fighting stance; one knee bent, weight all shifted to one foot, hand on her hip, and lips taut. I have my own; arms crossed, eyebrows knitted, and legs tense.

Her attitude ceases to frighten me, so she switches to pleading, “Reagen, at least consider it. Please?”

“Fine,” I lie, because no way in Hell am I even going to begin to think about doing something so selfish.

My mom leaves at that, perhaps believing that she had convinced me to date him.I head off in the opposite direction, searching for Ashton.

I find him after about two minutes in the upstairs hallway. He’s smiling faintly at one of the hung up pictures. I’m mortified when I realize that it’s my school picture from fourth grade, when I had an unkempt pixie cut that was curly in awkward places, braces, and two missing teeth.

Ashton must senseme, because he abruptly turns and grins at me. “Reagen, you were such a cute kid.”

“If the term cute suddenly means mildly disgusting, then yes, I was cute,” I reply.

Ashton frowns, advising, “You really shouldn’t joke about yourself like that.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I know the girl, Reagen, personally. She doesn’t mind,” I joke.

Ashton grins humorlessly. “Why can’t you take anything seriously?”

“Why be serious?” I point out. “Seriousness comes with hardship and pain. Humor is a demeanor of carefreeness and joy.”

“Carefreeness is the seed of ignorance, and joy, denial. You can’t fool me,” Ashton retorts.

“I didn’t want to get into a political debate,” I murmur.

“Fine. Then I will present you with three choices, Ms. Bennett. Option one: Date me. Option two: Go out with me. Option three: Become my girlfriend,” Ashton offers .

“What about option four?” I question.

“Option four?” Ashton repeats.

“”None of the above!” I declare. I take Ashton’s hand, pulling him down the steps. “Now, Ashton, don’t take this personally, but…. Get out!” I push him out the door and shut it. I wait for a few moments, ear pressed against the wood. I don’t have a peephole, so this is my only assurance that he’s gone. I go to sit, but a knock on the door interrupts me. I sigh, opening the door to see Ashton standing there, hands behind his back, smiling.

“Excuse me, do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?”

I can’t help but laugh, burying my face in my hands. I look at Ashton through my fingers, to see him still smirking. “Ashton, I won’t say yes.”

“I’m not leaving until you do,” Ashton replies, his smile augmenting.

I glance around desperately for some inspiration to get this boy to leave. “Don’t you have to be somewhere?”

“Well, school tomorrow, but so do you,” Ashton answers.

I stick my hip out, placing a hand on my waist. “Fine.”

Ashton jumps up and down with pleasure as I continue, “You will take me out once. You will have a dinner with my parents first; I’m a good girl. You will have me home by curfew at 11:00, and know that I will be wearing a chastity belt.”

“Could this one date lead to more?” Ashton wonders hopefully.

I decide not to cruelly destroy every molecule of faith in this boy, by lying, “Maybe.”

Ashton squeals happily, hugging me. He rubs my back, giving me one last squeeze before leaving. As he hops into his car, he waves, calling,

“See you, Reagen.”

The next day at school, I open my locker to find a card and a small teddy bear about as large as my hand. The card is pink, and in Gothic calligraphy reads, “Cordially Invited….”

I open the card to read the inside, which is handwritten in Ashton’s precise scrawl.

“Dearest Reagen,

We will be attending the waterpark this Saturday. I will pick you up at 11:00 a.m., and you will be home by 3:00. Make sure you bring a swim suit, as you will get wet!

Forever yours,

Ashton

I can’t hold back my smile. I tuck the card into my backpack, making sure it doesn’t get crumpled. I shut my locker and turn to go to class, when I see Ashton. I sneak up behind him and tap his shoulder. Ashton faces me and smiles. “Did you get the card?”

I nod, biting my lip. “I did. Thank you, that was very sweet.”

Ashton lifts his hand, cupping my jaw. He brings his thumb across my cheek, complimenting, “Anything to make a beautiful girl smile.”

I blush, and mutter, “I’m really not pretty.”

Ashton’s brows furrow, and he asks, “Oh, you don’t know? How can you not see it?”

I say, “Goodbye, Ashton”, successfully avoiding the subject.

When I get home from school, I show my mother the card and stuffed animal, and she just about cries.

“Oh Reagen, honey, I think he loves you!” my mom chokes out.

I play with the ribbon tied around the bear’s neck, thumbing the silk. “I doubt it. He just met me, after all.” I glance up at my mom, adding, “It’s a crush at best.”

My mom shrugs, patting my shoulder. “Well, call it what you want, but don’t think I can’t tell when a boy takes an interest in you. And my, has this one taken that attraction and ran with it!” She stands, leaving the room.

I sit there, reading the card over and over. It’s unreal. I never really thought I’d be going on an actual date with a guy. Granted, it’s at a cheap water park, but I think that almost makes it better. To Hell with fancy restaurants and to Hell with moonlight picnics. Let’s give it up for flimsy dates in a dirty place, because they force you to make the time memorable.

I read over the card once more. ‘Forever yours’ is how he signed it. Ashton Riley, forever mine. I’m starting to grow accustomed to that.

 

When I get up that Saturday morning, my stomach rolls with nerves. I can’t quite explain why I’m nervous; Ashton is the one completely putting himself on the line. I’m here, safe and sound, yet I’m quaking in my boots.

I dress in a bikini, one that my mother describes as horrid and awful and immodest and wrong in one simple phrase. “Hmph. Skimpy.” I wear jean shorts and a striped tank top over this, stepping into my flip flops as I head out the door. I carry a beach bag, containing my wallet, phone, towel, and sunscreen. My mother kisses me on the forehead and my father gives me a prideful steady look.

Ashton arrives at 11:00 sharp; the clock on my phone literally turns to eleven just as he pulls into the driveway. I just know that the smug son of a bitch probably waited around the block and pulled in at the exact right moment.

I climb into his car, bending my long legs awkwardly to fit in. I push the seat back, which doesn’t resolve the uncomfortable situation, but doesn’t exacerbate it either.

“How are you?” Ashton asks. “Sorry to wake you up early on a weekend.”

“Please,” I scoff. “I rolled out of bed at 10:40.” Maybe that was a lie, but does he _really_ need to know that I woke up at 9:45?

Ashton grins, replying, “Well, I’ve been up since 10:00. You sure made me look like a fool.”

“Sorry,” I apologize, smiling back. I place my hand on the platform in between us, which jumps up on a bump on the road. That’s how I realize it opens. I finger the edges of it, trying to find the latch. It pops open, and I begin to rummage through its contents, without asking, mind you.

“Hey, rude!” Ashton laughs. “What gives you the right to go through my stuff?”

“Um.... The Nineteenth Amendment?” I giggle.

“Tell me, Reagen, how does women’s suffrage synonymously align with you going through my personal belongings?” Ashton challenges.

“I am a woman, therefore, feminism,” I retort.

Ashton chuckles. “That’s no excuse.”

“Well, what is your excuse for owning a Black Veil Brides CD?” I question.

Ashton exhales sharply. “Please, that’s my sister’s. She’s 11, so she’s allowed.”

“Right, sure,” I mumble. I continue to sort through everything. I find sunglasses, duct tape, candy, a half drunk bottle of soda, a giant clothespin, like one of the nine inch plastic ones, a stack of photographs bound together with rubber bands, and CDs from artists like Modern Baseball, the Drums, Brand New, and the Smiths.

“Wow,” I breathe.

“What?” Ashton asks.

“Your music taste is what I want mine to be,” I admit.

Ashton turns a bit pink in the cheeks, and assures, “I’m sure yours’ is just lovely.”

“I have quite a few guilty pleasures,” I confide.

“I stopped believing guilty pleasures a long time ago,” Ashton responds.

“How come?”

“Well, as long as you’re not hurting anyone, do what you want. A music taste doesn’t define who you are. If you like One Direction, I don’t give a damn, just please don’t be rude about it,” Ashton says. His green blue eyes flick over to me before going back to the road. “You know what I mean?”

I nod. “Yeah, I do.”

I pull out the Modern Baseball CD, and skip to the one track that I feel will define this moment.

Ashton smiles within the first few measures of the song, sharing, “Oh my God, I love this song. It hurts daddy when the singer says things like that, but I still love it.”

I chuckle, and sing along as it starts. Ashton seems to not know the words, but his fingers tap against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the song. When it hits the chorus, he bursts out belting with me.

“ ‘She’s on his mind day and night! She thinks he takes her for granted, but to her surprise, he needs her. More than she… needs…. Him! Oh! Won’t fight, no, she just walks away. Won’t tell his secrets, just keeps them safe. That’s why she’s, she’s not just another face!’”

I grin over at Ashton, who is smiling ear to ear and giggling. I laugh along, and tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear. My hand resides against his cheek until we arrive at the waterpark and are forced to vacate the vehicle or die from heatstroke in the hot sun.

Ashton switches off the music, stepping out. I reluctantly follow, wanting nothing more than to listen to more music with him. But I am excited for the waterpark, so my spirits are lifted as I tag along with him to the front gate.

“The two of us,” Ashton tells to the ticket man.

“I have money,” I whisper, grabbing his arm.

“My treat,” Ashton replies. “Keep your money for something useful like college tuition or drugs.”

I giggle and snort, and the ticket man raises an eyebrow at me, which makes me break eye contact and blush.

Once we have our paper wristbands, Ashton leads me into the water park area by the hand.

The very first thing we see is a slide so tall that it’s about 30+ feet in the air and goes almost completely vertical.

“Ooh, let’s do that one,” Ashton suggests.

“I’m afraid of heights,” I dismiss.

“Come on!” Ashton pleads, pouting out his lower lip. “It’ll be fun!”

“I’ll…. I’ll watch you go down it,” I insist. “There’s hardly a line anyways; everyone’s eating.”

“You’re the best!” Ashton squeaks, hugging me. I’m caught off guard and sort of squawk in surprise, but Ashton is nice enough just to squeeze me and then let go, racing towards the steps to the water slide.

I was right; I wait for less than five minutes before seeing Ashton shoot down the slide at the speed of light. When he stands, the legs to his trunks are so ridden up that the black boxer briefs he must be wearing beneath his swim trunks are completely visible. The slide must have a knack for creating malfunctions in wardrobes. He adjusts himself before toddling out of the slide and over, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards the slide.

“Now let’s both go!” Ashton chirps.

I let him drag me, because he was grinning so hard the entire way down that I figure the height is worth it.

He goes down before me, saying, “See you at the bottom, cutie.”

My eyes pop open at the word ‘cutie’, and I’m about to ask him about it, but he’s already on his way down the slide. I peek over the top to see him burst down the slide to the bottom. He gets out, and the lifeguard gives me the okay to go ahead.

I grip the railing for dear life as I sit, and I can see my outstretched legs be supported by nothing, as the slide goes just about straight down. I’m about to turn around, when I see Ashton at the bottom of the slide. Something about him is comforting, and it gives me the courage to let go and just slide.

The ride makes my heart skip a few beats at first, but I very quickly grow accustomed to it. I’m whooping and hollering and having a blast when I reach the end and the top to my bathing suit pops off.

I sit at the edge of the slide, hands wrapped around my chest, my face crimson. Ashton cocks his head at me, and another lifeguard yells, “You! Get off the slide, please!”

I’m about to yell back that I’m unable to without flashing my goods to the fine people of the Cedar Rapids aquatic center, when Ashton realizes my situation. He yanks off his swim trunks, running over in his underwear and thrusting them at me. I gratefully accept them, turning somehow redder as I wrap them around myself and stand, locating my untied swim suit top and grabbing that as well.

Ashton Riley, the boy who took off his pants in front of dozens of people for me. Sort of an odd moment of chivalry, and I’m sure that contemporary young adult fiction writers would compare him to my knight in shining armor or something cliché like that. But to me, he’s more of a superhero. And not because I’m a girl and I automatically need to be rescued, but because superheroes save everyone, including the independent.

The lifeguard at the waterpark failed to see the humor or valor in the situation, and so he kicked Ashton out, and of course I followed him. Ashton apologized on his way out, and as soon as we were out of earshot, broke into a fit of laughter.

“Oh my God, that’s the best reason to get kicked out of a waterpark,” Ashton wheezes.

I laugh too, agreeing, “Wait till we tell that one to the grandkids.”

Ashton’s eyebrows perk up. “Grandkids?”

I redden, and mumble, “Shut up.”

Ashton holds my hand, threading his fingers with mine, and I automatically recoil.

He looks at me as though I’d burnt him.

“I’m a germaphobe,” I explain quickly, not wanting his feelings to be hurt.

He frowns, his eyebrows furrowed. Then he extends his pinky finger, grinning. I hook my little finger with his, and we walk to the car that way and on the ride to his house, our looped fingers sit in between us.

That Monday when I get back, already Ashton asks me,

“Would you like to meet my parents this Friday night?”

I raise my brows in surprise, but lower them before he can see. I put my hands on my hips and lift my chin, replying, “What’s in it for me?”

Ashton smirks, and a dimple forms on his left cheek. “I dunno. What are you looking for, exactly?”

I prance before him, circling him mischievously. “I want a pony, a bowl of assorted fruits, and a revolver.”

Ashton laughs, and takes my hand, responding,

“I can’t give you that, but, I _can_ offer you a free home cooked meal of tater tot casserole along with a stay at my inn. So, what do you say?”

I purposely prop up an eyebrow this time. “Your parents will allow you to have a southern belle sleeping under the very same roof?”

Ashton’s grin remains indelible, and he answers, “In the very same room, as a matter of fact.”

I smile and shrug, pointing out,

“I’ll have to ask my parents. I’m really not sure if they want me spending the night at a boys’ house.”

“So?” Ashton remarks. He pulls a loose thread off his shirt and rolls it around in his hand, bringing pinched fingers up and down the string. “Tell them… say you’re going to a girlfriends’ house.”

I knit my brows, and insist, “Oh, I- I can’t do that. I’ve never lied to my parents before.”

Ashton’s grin widens with incredulousness. “You’ve _never_ lied to your parents?”

I redden a bit in the cheeks; I can tell by how they burn all of the sudden. “Well, I have, but not about anything important.” The biggest lie I’ve ever told them is “I’m okay”.

Ashton mock scolds, “Tsk tsk, Reagen! You’ve got to branch out! Let me see your wild side!”

“I don’t want to get in trouble,” I emphasize.

Ashton places a hand on my jawline, and gently tilts my head up to look at him. “Now, why would I ever want to get you in trouble?”

“I guess that I can lie,” I decide. Ashton claps his hands together in excitement. “But, for the record, this statement of purpose for this sleepover is not to have sex!”

Ashton scrunches his face in displeasure, asking,

“Ew, why would I want to do that?”

I roll my eyes and take his pinky, guiding him up the steps by our linked fingers.

That night at dinner, I question my parents,

“Can I go over to a friend’s house on Friday to spend the night?”

“Which friend?” my mom asks.

“Her name’s Maggie,” I lie. I take a swig of my juice, and proceed to make things up. “I have art class with her.”

My mom looks over at my father for approval, who nods. She turns to me and shrugs, replying,

“I don’t see why not. So you’ll just go with her to her house after school?”

“Yeah, that was the plan,” I answer. I stand to put my dishes away, and kiss my mother on the cheek, and my father as well. I see from the corner of my eye the bewildered expression they exchange, and I have to keep my head forward to hide my smile.

During lunch that next day, Ashton teases,

“So, little girl, did you get permission from Mommy and Daddy?”

“Yes,” I reply. “Consider yourself special; I rebelled for you, Ashton.”

Ashton grins and pulls me against his side, walking with me. “Tell me, what would you want to do at our sleepover?”

“We don’t need a schedule; we always have a blast, don’t we?” I respond, strolling leisurely enough to drive the quick paced Ashton crazy.

Ashton sweeps me along, moving faster. “Call me rock and you roll, because my, do the kids love us.”

I groan, but grin nonetheless. I stop Ashton, grabbing his arm and pulling him to a stop. I give him my steamiest eyes, and his smile drops, and for the first time since I’ve met him, he looks nervous. He rolls his long sleeves into his hands with curled fingers, so half of his hands are concealed. I place a hand on his shoulder, and another beneath his chin. I guide his lips to mine, and shut my eyes as they touch.

I suck on his lower lip, grating my teeth gently against the skin. I glance out of the corner of my eye to see if any teachers or tattletale-y students are nearby, and seeing none, I kiss him for a bit longer before breaking the embrace.

I lick my lips just to taste him some more, and question,

“So, I’ll be at your house Friday?”

Ashton stands, knock kneed and pigeon toed, seemingly transfixed on what had just happened. He snaps out of it, blinking and replying, “Yep. Should be fun.”

I nod, and wish him goodbye, giving him a quick hug before proceeding to my class.

That Friday arrives sooner than I wish, and this time, I find myself being anxious. I leave my overnight bag in my car, which contains some clothes, pjs, a toothbrush, and the like. When I see Ashton at lunch, he’s all goofy and smiley because he knows that after school he’ll be spending time with me. It’s endearing in a way, and I decide to be flattered and carefree as well rather than annoyed by his behavior.

However, it’s hard to relax; because my main concern is whether or not his parents will like me, and adults tend not to be a fan of me. If they don’t like me, that could send our entire relationship down the drain. And, being fully aware of the fact that Ashton is way more important to me than anyone should be, I don’t know what I’d do without him.

Ashton drives me over to his house after school. “To the Ashton Mobile!”

I anxiously chuckle and climb in, contorting my legs to fit into the small car.

Ashton speeds the entire way there, and a couple of times I have to caution,

“Ashton, you should slow down.”

So he slows down and stays at the speed limit for a while. Then he progressively gets faster and faster until we’re going forty in town again.

He takes a sharp turn into what must be his driveway. The house is gorgeous; a big Victorian styled place with a bay window out front.

Ashton takes my pinky and drags me up the small porch, kicking off his shoes. He opens the door and leads the way inside, where I self-consciously stay in my sneakers.

“Mom!” Ashton calls. “I’m home. I have the girl.”

I blush and giggle uneasily, unprepared to meet his parents. His mother comes in at that point. She’s a short, portly woman with a ruddy complexion and gorgeous blue eyes. She wipes her hands off on the front of her pants and shakes my hand, greeting,

“You must be Reagen. Oh, I’ve heard so much about you. Why don’t you two go down to Ashton’s room?”

I raise an eyebrow, questioning, “ _Down_ to Ashton’s room? Don’t you mean _up?”_

She laughs and shakes her head. “Ashton’s room is in the basement. Trust me, his father and I tried our hardest to talk him out of it, but our little Ashton, he’s always been so stubborn. When he wants something, he sticks to it.”

“Thanks mom,” Ashton sighs.

She hugs Ashton, hardly reaching her son’s neck at her stature. “Maybe that can be interpreted in a good way. You’ve always been so determined, and so decisive. Always knowing what you want.”

“Yeah, we’re going now,” Ashton tells, grabbing my forearm. He crosses the room and starts down the stairs. I hear his mom call,

“Have fun!”

Once we reach the bottom of the staircase, I share, “I like your mom.”

“Do you really?” Ashton responds.

“Yeah, don’t you?”

“Well, duh,” Ashton replies. He smirks, a hand on his hip. He tilts his head towards the back of the room, ordering, “Come on.”

He leads the way to his bed, which is a loft bed with a desk underneath. “What do you want to do?”

I set myself on his bed, occupying myself with one of the stuffed animals propped up against the wall. It’s a giant overstuffed penguin, with wings that are very flappable. “I dunno. Watch TV or a movie? Do you have a laptop or something?”

Ashton busts out into this ridiculously big grin, and assures, “I’ve got something even better.”

He rolls over to the ladder, climbing down with ease. He hops off, ignoring the few bottom rungs. He disappears beneath the loft bed, and I strain my eyesight and bend over the side of the bed to try to see what’s going on.

A bright blue flash ahead of me catches my attention, and when I bring my eyes to it, I see that it’s a startup screen for a projector. I chortle, and full out guffaw when I see Netflix load up.

“What’s your poison?” Ashton questions from below. “American Horror Story? Pokemon? Attack On Titan?”

“As much as I love Eren Jaeger,” I begin, “I’m in more of a Scream mood.”

“Aw, come on. Tell me you don’t like that entry level garbage,” Ashton jokes.

“It’s probably my nostalgia goggles, making the movie seem better than it really is,” I admit. “But it’s one of my favorites.”

“Whatever you say, princess,” Ashton calls.

There’s a brief silence as Ashton climbs back up and curls in next to me, wrapping a blanket around us.

“Did you say princess condescendingly?”

Ashton just giggles, so I proceed, “Because I accept my new order and request that you be beheaded.”

“Rude!” Ashton laughs. “So you’re a princess, and I’m not your prince?”

I shake my head, grinning. “No.”

“I’m just a peasant? A serf? An untouchable?”

I nod. “Now you’re getting it.”

Ashton tackles me, kissing my neck and squeezing me. I start to laugh, and Ashton goes along with me. Soon, we’re rolling around and clutching our sides from exerting ourselves so much.

Ashton lets out a staggered breath, saying,

“See, what did you have to be worried about?”

We have dinner with his parents, which overall goes pretty smoothly. His mother asks me really unique questions, like whether I’d ever get a tattoo instead of what I want to do for college. I like it; it’s a change of scenery from the boring conversations I’ve had about my grades.

I also meet Ashton’s siblings. He has an older sister named Mia, and she’s only a grade above Ashton. She looks so much like him that I’m surprised I can’t recognize her. I’ve probably passed her in the halls a few times, but never stopped to notice that she is basically Ashton in a wig.

His younger brother, who can only be the one that Ashton dropped off at daycare the first day I met him, is named Logan. He doesn’t really say much, but according to the rest of the family he’s very strange. I guess that all kids are generally weird.

Ashton snuggles up next to me that night, draping an arm over me and pulling me closer. I turn over, nuzzling my face into his chest. I inhale his cologne deeply, and can feel my eyelashes flutter as I do so.

Ashton uses the penguin as a pillow, and we fall asleep with some generic slasher flick playing on his projector.

When I wake in the morning, I’m alone. I yawn and rise slowly, not wanting to give myself a head rush. I glance over at the clock and see that it’s already noon, so I decide to stretch a bit before finally getting up.

I trod upstairs to find Ashton, to see him shirtless, dressed merely in his blue plaid boxers and a pink flowery apron. He turns, wiping his hands on the front of his apron and spots me. “Reagen Marie! That is your middle name, isn’t it?”

“No, actually,” I respond. “I’ve never told you my middle name.”

“Then what is it? Is it as lovely as your first?” Ashton asks.

I shrug, sitting on the counter. I peer over at the stove, to see cheesy scrambled eggs in a frying pan, a slightly overcooked pancake in another, and what can only be muffins in the oven. “I guess some people would consider it to be, only unconventionally so.”

“Just like you,” Ashton replies, shuffling the pancake from a spatula onto a plate. He pours in more batter and sets the bowl down, striding over to me. He puts his arms up on my shoulders and links his hands together. He kisses my forehead softly, and I can feel him smile against my skin.

“Did you just call me unusually pretty?” I question.

Ashton’s grin holds firm as he answers, “I didn’t call you average.”

I chuckle, and tell, “It’s Iris. Iris is my middle name.”

“It’s beautiful,” Ashton purrs, kissing my neck.

I push him away gently, scolding, “We’re at your parents’ house!”

“They aren’t home,” Ashton tells sultrily. “When the cats are away, the mice will play, am I right?”

With that, he begins to softly kiss and bite at my collarbone. I pry away once again, telling, “I’m… I’m not ready.”

“That’s okay,” Ashton assures. “It’s fine, really. Sexual activity without consent is so not punk rock.”

I laugh, tossing my head back. I raise an eyebrow at Ashton, inquiring, “Just what is your last name then, Sid Vicious?”

“I don’t want to tell,” Ashton replies simply.

I shove at his shoulder, ordering, “Come on, tell me! It’s not like it’s a nuclear launch code, it’s a freaking middle name.”

Ashton’s smile augments, and he tells, “Matthew.”

“Matthew. That’s a nice name,” I decide. “Ashton Matthew Riley…”

“Reagen Iris Riley,” Ashton counters.

“My last name is Bennett,” I remind.

“Not for long,” Ashton says with a wink.

I blush and quickly change subjects, asking, “So are we eating, or are you just making the food to look at it?”

“Actually I was going to look at it. How rude of you to think that it was for us to eat,” Ashton jokes. He saunters over, pulling the muffins from the oven and setting them on a table. He brings everything to the table and sets out plates and forks, instructing,

“Sit down, Reagen Iris. Let Momma Bear feed you.”

I do as I’m told, taking a seat. I spoon eggs onto my plate as I giggle, “You are Momma Bear?”

Ashton nods, sitting down himself. He takes two pancakes and four muffins, piling them onto his plate.

“You eat like a bear,” I murmur, shoveling a forkful of eggs into my mouth with an eye roll.

After breakfast, Ashton questions,

“Do you want to do something fun?”

I’m astonished, of course. “You can have fun in Vernon Creek?”

“There’s a skate park. We can go watch 8th grade boys in Hot Topic clothes fall down,” Ashton suggests.

“Actually, I’d rather pump gas,” I retort.

“Ouch,” Ashton winces. “It’s more fun than it sounds, you know.”

“Ashton Matthew! We are not watching boys who’ve barely hit puberty trip over themselves!” I insist.

“Oh, oh, oh, watch this one,” Ashton giggles. “He’s coming in hot and… OH!”

“OH!” I cheer, high fiving Ashton.

The boy brushes off his skinny jeans as he gradually stands, completely unaware of our amusement in from the parking lot.

“See, I told you this is great!” Ashton laughs.

“I must say, pre-pubescent boys with no sense of balance are my favorite thing,” I agree.

Ashton chuckles, and then shouts, “Oh shit! It’s 3:00!”

“Your point?” I ask.

“Ah, I’ve got a swim meet at five,” Ashton explains. He starts the car, adding, “I’m afraid I’ll have to bring you home, little lady.”

“You’re on the high school swim team?” I snort.

“Yeah,” Ashton replies. “Why, what’s so funny about that?”

“Tell me you don’t wear a speedo,” I beg. “Please, tell me my boyfriend doesn’t wear a speedo.”

Ashton chortles, responding, “I wear speedo _trunks_ , yes, but not briefs.”

“Are you any good?” I ask.

Ashton shrugs. “A lot of very reliable tell me I am.”

“Like who?”

“Mainly my first place ribbons. But, me being me, I’m stubborn with the idea that I’m not good at anything,” Ashton admits.

“You’re good at plenty of things,” I comfort.

We’re quiet for a while, until we pull up to my house. I lean over the seat, kissing Ashton.

He cups my jaw, stroking his thumb across my cheek. His tongue slips inside of my mouth, and our tongues wrestle for a moment until I break the kiss, gasping for air.

“You aren’t winded?” I pant.

“Lungs of a swimmer,” Ashton boasts.

“Good luck,” I wish. I peck him on the cheek once more, and I don’t hear Ashton pull out of the driveway until I’m inside.

 

I see Ashton in the halls that Monday. I know that the school has rules on PDA, but I can’t resist hopping on his back when I see him. I just can’t contain myself around him. “Hey, Michael Phelps, how was your meet?”

Ashton chuckles and slides me off, replying, “It went very well, thank you. And if you’re going to condescendingly associate me with swimmers, I’d much prefer you call me Rin Matsuoka.

“Who in the Hell is that?” I demand.

“Girl, do you even anime?” Ashton scoffs.

I giggle, and respond, “I’ve got to get to class. But out of curiosity, when can I see one of these swim meets?”

“You… you want to see me swim?” Ashton stammers.

“Of course. It seems like the girlfriend thing to do,” I point out.

“There’s one tomorrow night at 5:30, here as a matter of fact,” Ashton says, his voice pitchy and tight. I can’t tell if he’s nervous or excited, or a balanced combination of both.

“Sounds awesome,” I assure. I kiss his cheek before rushing to the first floor. The bell rings as I cross the threshold of the classroom, but luckily for me, the teacher decides to let it pass. As I slip casually into my desk, I can’t help but wonder if a tardy would’ve dampened my mood.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Mom? Can I go to Maggie’s swim meet tomorrow night?” I plead. “I’ll be very good and I get in free for being a student and I’ll still get my homework done.”

“Reagen Iris Bennett, seeing a friend two times in a week?” my father smirks. “Isn’t this socially exerting for you?”

“Actually, not at all,” I respond, smug at the fact that they’re fooled. “By the way, Maggie’s not real.”

My mom’s jaw drops, and she her hand stops in midair. My father’s grin fades, and he inquires hotly,

“Then just where were you last Friday?”

I shrug, continuing, “I’m going to be straight with you, Dad. I was at a boy’s. We didn’t fool around, I met his parents, and he made me breakfast. He’s my boyfriend, his name is Ashton, he’s very sweet and witty and he’s on the swim team. Can I please see him race tomorrow night; I’m sure it’d mean the world to him.”

My parents are silent, and the tension in the room is palpable. I finger the edge of my plate slowly, my eyes fixed on the stain of our table. “I’m really sorry, okay? I just didn’t want to disappoint him.”

“Reagen, why wouldn’t you tell us sooner?” my mom asks, hurt in her voice.

My dad rises, walking crossing the room to my mom. He takes her arms, coaxing in a lowered voice, “Honey, it’s okay. It’s what teenagers do.”

“I just..” my mom begins, tears in her voice. She glances over at me, and my eyes flash back to the table. “I just wish she’d open up some, you know?” she concludes quietly.

“I know, sweetie,” my dad agrees. “Just let me handle this, okay?”

“Alright,” my mom sniffles, wiping fresh tears away. She heads upstairs quickly, moving past me harshly.

My dad sits, and the wooden chair creaks under his weight. “Reagen, where’d you meet this boy… what’s his name…”

“Ashton. His name is Ashton Matthew Riley,” I reply.

“Wow,” my dad chortles. “So you’re on a middle name basis already, I suppose that’s good.”

My dad raises his eyebrows at me, offering a smile. He crosses his eyes, and finally gets a chuckle out of me. “There’s my girl. Where’d you meet him?”

“He was my tour guide of the school,” I answer honestly. “First person I met there.”

“Lucky draw, right?” my dad guesses.

I nod. “Yeah. Real lucky draw.”

My dad sighs, leaning back in his seat. He puts his hands in his hair, and mutters, “You know, I suppose the adult thing to do would be to punish you by not allowing you to attend his swim meet.”

I hold my breath and close my eyes. I’m ready to respond when my dad proceeds,

“But he sounds like a nice boy, and I’d hate for you to have to break a promise with him.”

“I can go?” I squeak, the disbelief obvious in my voice.

My dad laughs, and reaffirms, “Yes, you can go. And I’d love to meet him, by the way. I’m sure your mother would be, too.”

“What is up with her?” I ask.

My dad lets out another sigh, admitting, “Well, she’s just a bit worried about you; she thinks you’re depressed.”

“Depressed?” I snort.

“I know you’re not depressed, Reagen,” my dad says steadily. “I’ve seen a difference in you, ever since you’ve changed schools. You’re eating again, you’re smiling more, you’re not as dry or, when you are sarcastic, it’s more from a place of jovialness than bitterness. You’re carrying yourself differently, even. I’m going to assume that this Ashton boy has something to do with you getting better, but if what my little girl needed was another person to listen to her, to care about her, to love her….” My dad stands, striding over and ruffling my hair. “Then that’s alright with me.” He kisses the top of my head, adding, “I am so proud of you.”

“Thanks dad,” I reply. I glance over at the calendar, and one very important idea strikes me.

Three weeks and a day. It’s been three weeks, and a day.

I bite back my grin, and excuse myself from the table. I run upstairs and call Ashton, having to dig my teeth into my thumb to contain my giddiness.

“Reagen?” Ashton asks groggily.

“It’s been over three weeks!” I guffaw. “Ashton, it’s been over three weeks!”

I can almost see his confused face through the receiver, but I don’t care. “Um, yes. Three weeks, hooray.”

“No, it’s been more than three weeks. That’s why it’s great,” I giggle. I bounce in my kneeling position, making my mattress shake.

“Uh, okay?” Ashton chuckles. “Do you want to tell me what’s so significant about it being over three weeks? Over three weeks since when?”

My bouncing ceases, and I sigh, “You’re going to have to pick me up for this.”

Ashton drives us to the park, insisting on a change of scenery. I’m pretty sure he only takes us there because it’s nice out. Ashton is like an old lady in this way; if the sun’s up, he’ll sit outside contently for hours.

He sprawls out in the grass, gazing out at the empty playground. All of the children have gone home, have eaten their supper, and some of them are likely being put to rest as we lay here, wide awake, taking the moon kissed playground in.

“So,” Ashton starts. He folds his hands in his lap, asking, “Is it, is this about anything serious?”

I nod solemnly, the grin fading off my face. “Yes, actually. I’m about to unleash a whole can of crazy, messed up past drama on you.” I wrap my fingers around patches of grass, pulling the blades out at their bases in massive clumps. “You can run now if you want, pretend you never met me.”

“Hey,” Ashton comforts. He holds me, pecking the top of my head. “Everybody’s got some luggage, right? And I’m more than willing to deal with yours, Reagen. And the last thing I want is you out of my life. I am utterly convinced that forgetting you is the worst thing that could ever happen to me.” He intertwines his fingers with mine. “I know we may not be together forever; that’s reality. But as long as you’re with me in some way, even if it’s only memories… I’ll be okay.”

He encourages, “God ahead, let’s hear your luggage. I’m all ears.”

“It…” I take a deep breath. “It’s been a while since I’ve thought about this. Let me think… it happened last year,” I begin. “It was freshman year, and I my worst class from the first day was biology, which I had with this middle aged teacher. I didn’t do so well in that class, as my grades clearly showed. In an effort of raising my mark, that October, my mother set up private tutoring sessions after school with the teacher. I went in that first Monday and… it was all fine. I didn’t understand the material any better, but nothing went wrong. It wasn’t until I went in that Thursday that…”

“He raped me, Ashton,” I confide, tears streaking my cheeks. “He raped me and he swore he’d kill me if I told. And I was trapped, and it was the most terrifying thing. And he took advantage of me more than once; there was no escape. It was awful. My life was a Hell. I’d go home in tears and come to school with bruises on my thighs and wrists. I covered them; I didn’t want any trouble. I was sure that it would all blow over with time. I remember making bargains with God. I’d offer to take on an 8 year old’s cancer if only I could get away from that teacher.”

“I became withdrawn and irritable. I lost all of my friends. They never really cared about me anyways, I guess. I was really only an acquaintance; half strangers that only talked because we saw each other five times a week. Other girls called me a slut; it was then when I started to develop. I was quiet, which to them meant I was hiding my deviant sex life.”

I hear Ashton sniffle, and glance over to see him crying softly, his head in his hands.

“Finally,” I sob, realizing that I’m crying as well. But not like before; not those gentle tears. Those sprinkles have turned into a full on hurricane. “A teacher walked in on us. I thought it was over, but it never stops. First I had to tell the teacher, then the counselor, then the police, who told my parents. I still see a psychologist every few months, and sometimes I get nightmares about It.”

“But do you know what really sucks?” I ask. I scoff, “That bastard took everything from me. I’ll never be the same, and not for the better.”

“Reagen,” Ashton whimpers. He looks at me, his eyes swollen and glossed over with tears. “You listen to me, and you listen closely. He did an awful thing, and if I ever met the son of a bitch, I’d hang him from his fucking tendons.” Ashton chuckles bitterly, proceeding, “But he didn’t get all of you. No, he didn’t get that sweet, funny, intelligent, caring girl I’ve fallen for so hard. He didn’t take away my Reagen, and he never can. You are so much stronger than me, so smart. You know the world sucks and there’s nothing you can do to change that, and that’s knowledge.”

“But your wisdom? That’s being able to laugh, and not to necessarily disregard, but not pay so much attention to the bad things.”

He wipes his eyes, continuing, “The world is a trash can, Reagen. It’s taken me seventeen years to realize that.” He breaks into a grin, reasoning, “But that doesn’t mean that we can’t put up our decorations, spray some air freshener. And sure, everything will still look and smell like garbage, but now, we…” Ashton lays on his back. “We can live with it.”

I lay beside him, smirking, “And you think you’re an idiot.”

Ashton’s smile widens a notch, and he leans over, kissing me softly. “There’s nothing you can do to scare me away, Reagen.”

“Nothing would scare you away?” I challenge.

“Try me,” Ashton purrs.

My smile drops, as I notice, “I never told you what was so great about it being over three weeks.”

“Ah, yes. What was that all about?” Ashton asks.

“I… I was really unhappy, Ashton. Not anymore, I swear. But, I was. And I’m guessing my environment was a big part of it, but I dunno. Anyways…” I exhale sharply, admitting, “I was going to kill myself. If I hadn’t met you… I’d be dead right now.”

Ashton cocks his head and knits his brows, so I elaborate,

“Three weeks and a day ago, I decided I was going to kill myself in three weeks. Luckily… my plans were derailed.”

“You…. You would do that?” Ashton mumbles. “Why? Can’t you see that you’re something special?”

“I don’t want to be,” I respond. “Being different is what got me into this mess. All I want to do is to be normal, just like everybody else, like you.”

Ashton laughs outwardly. I’m sharing my demons, and he’s laughing in my face.

“What is so funny?” I demand.

“I’m not normal, you big goof!” Ashton replies. “Remember the compulsive liar? That’s… that’s still me, Reagen! Your boyfriend is a compulsive liar, and he’s not lying so much anymore, but that’s still a part of me! I’m… what do you call it… somewhat damaged.”

“Don’t call yourself damaged,” I beg. “That’s way too self-deprecating.”

“Who said there’s anything wrong with that?” Ashton questions. “Forget perfection; perfection’s boring! I’m broken, and I’m proud! I’m a compulsive liar and a narcissistic bastard and I’m happy to tell anyone that!”

I raise an eyebrow and roll my eyes.

“Say it with me, Reagen!” Ashton prompts. “Say, ‘I’m Reagen! I’ve got some scars, I’ve been to therapy, and I’ve been suicidal! I’ve been to Hell and back, and I can tell you every last detail! And I am proud of who I am, what I’ve been through!’”

“I’m… I’m not saying that,” I giggle.

“Oh, I got you giggling,” Ashton chuckles. He tackles me and hugs me, kissing my neck. I laugh, and open my eyes to see his teal blues burrowing through me. “I love you so much, Reagen. You have no idea.”

“I think I know,” I tell. “Because there’s this boy named Ashton, and he makes me feel things I’ve never even imagined.”

“When can I meet him?” Ashton jokes.

I laugh mockingly and hug him, squeezing him tightly. “Thanks for being there. Thanks for listening.”

“It’s my job,” Ashton answers quietly. “I’m here to listen to you, to be there for you. And that’s all I want, is to make you happy. Remember that, now.”

I nod. “I’ll remember.”

Tuesday morning I’m so excited to watch Ashton swim. I talk to him before my first class, and even though he assures me that swim meets aren’t all that great, I can’t seem to relax.

“Reagen, chill!” Ashton laughs as we walk to his car. “Do you want to eat at my place before the meet? It’s at supper time, so you should really eat something now.”

“Sure! I mean, no! Well… whatever!” I chirp.

“Slow down, tiger; the meet doesn’t start for about an hour and a half. Why don’t we get some food in you?” Ashton suggests.

He climbs into the car, so I follow suit, literally- not figuratively- hopping into the passenger seat.

Ashton pops in a CD, asking, “Do you like My Chemical Romance?”

“Oh my God, yes!” I gush. “Oh, I haven’t listened to them since like the sixth grade.”

“It was 2007, wasn’t it?” Ashton guesses.

“It was,” I reply.

“Did you go through a scene phase?” Ashton inquires.

I don’t answer, which prompts Ashton to add,

“Reagen Iris Bennett! Tell me you did not go through a scene phase!”

“Those were the days,” I moan. “I had the striped gloves, you know, with the thumb holes? Also, my hair had enough hairspray in it to start a fries, my neon skinny jeans were too tight, and my eye makeup held a haunting resemblance to a raccoon. And not to forget my obsession with Hello Kitty.”

“You mainstream loser!” Ashton laughs. “And I thought you were a free thinker.”

“So what? I was a scene kid! That’s the real skeleton in my closet,” I respond. “I had to have some vice, right?”

“Oh, and your vice wasn’t your overbearing personality?” Ashton teases.

“Come on, like you didn’t go through any embarrassing phases,” I scoff.

“Fact: I didn’t. I was always perfect,” Ashton remarks.

“Oh yeah? Your mom brought up your superhero obsession, where you’d wear a cape to preschool,” I retort.

“You’ve been conspiring with my mother behind my back?” Ashton gasps.

“If that means looking through a photo album, then yes, I’ve been conspiring with your mother,” I answer confidently.

“Wait… was it the blue book or the red book?” Ashton inquires.

“I dunno, why does it matter?” I ask.

“Did you by any chance see a photograph of a baby boy on a certain mountable toy?” Ashton questions.

“Oh! You mean the naked picture of baby you on the rocking horse!” I exclaim.

Ashton turns scarlet, confirming, “Yep, that was the one.”

I kiss his cheek, assuring, “It was adorable; don’t worry.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes, Ashton’s face slowly fading back to its original color. We reach his house soon, enough, and once we’re inside we eat, and then already Ashton’s changing into his swim suit.

I wait outside the bathroom door for him to step out in his trunks, and purposely embarrass him by hooting,

“Ow, ow! Look at this hottie!”

“Shut up,” Ashton mutters, a smile playing at his lips.

We drive back to the school, and Ashton kisses me goodbye once we’re in the pool area, dismissing,

“I have to go to the locker room. Go sit in the bleachers, and I’ll meet you when I’m done swimming, okay?”

“Sounds good,” I reply, waving as he leaves.

I make myself comfortable front and center in the stands. I’m very concerned with being able to see Ashton, so I make sure that I can watch him clearly by sitting in the middle of the very first row. This also means that I occasionally get little beads of water splashed onto me.

The first even is the medley relay, which Ashton swims the butterfly in. This race, the open butterfly, and the individual medley are all of the events he’s swimming in. He’s only told me this once, but me being me, I remembered.

Ashton’s relay team places first by a few strokes, and I get an overwhelming sense of pride at this, which is odd, considering I’m not actually part of the team.

Ashton doesn’t swim again for a while, so I find myself kind of bored for a bit. I leave to buy a drink, just to kill some time. When I return to the pool, my spot is taken by someone who had been sitting a row or two behind me.

I’m obviously annoyed, but too anxious to actually confront the offender, so I opt out for sitting at the far end of the bleachers where the races start.

I end up liking my new seat better, solely because I can see Ashton before the race. I watch him pick at his hands and nervously adjust his perfectly fine goggles over and over until it’s his turn to get up on the diving block.

I cheer him on through the individual medley, and I’m happy to see him place third. Earlier, I didn’t really know what the race was, so boy, was I surprised to see them sprint four laps, each one a different stroke. It looks exhausting, and when Ashton climbs out of the pool at the end, his chest is heaving with each breath.

His last race is the butterfly, which he gets first in by an entire body length. I see him waddle over to the locker room and then disappear inside, and the next thing I know, a drenched Ashton is poking my shoulder, squeaking,

“Let’s go!”

He drives back to his house, where he tells me he has to shower.

I can’t help but stare; watch a drop of water make its way gradually down his chest. He catches my eye and blushes a little, so I blush even more, snapping my head in the other direction.

“I wish you didn’t have to go shower,” I mutter. “You know, I just kinda want to admire you.”

“You can surely shower with me,” Ashton offers. “My parents aren’t home.”

I blink furiously, stammering, “B-but I don’t have any clean clothes!”

Ashton shrugs. “You can borrow some of mine.” He gestures towards the bathroom, and extends one open hand. “Are you coming, Reagen?”

I stand there, frozen. I take his hand warily, and grin when his hand immediately tightens around mine. I smile, and follow him into the bathroom.

I’ll save you all of the graphic details. But in actuality, we didn’t have sex. We hardly even touched each other, apart from washing each other’s hair and backs, that is. We kissed some, too, but Ashton was very nervous about slipping and falling, so we mostly refrained from kissing.

After the shower, I dress in a pair of Ashton’s boxers and an oversized t shirt.

“You look so cute!” Ashton exclaims, dressing himself. He steps into some sweatpants and comes over, scooping me up in his arms and helping me onto his bed. He climbs up as well, and we snuggle about nine o clock when he drives me home.

Ashton talks with my father briefly, who notices,

“It looks like Reagen’s wearing one of your shirts. Hopefully thinks didn’t get too wild.”

I stop in my tracks, but Ashton calmly responds,

“I assure you nothing of the sort happened. Reagen got a big sleepy, so I gave her something to change into.”

“You seem like a good guy, Ash,” my dad compliments. “Stop by anytime you want.”

“Thanks, Mr. Bennett,” Ashton replies. “I should be going, now. My parents are due home in a couple hours.”

“See you,” my dad calls.

The front door shuts, and my dad sits there grinning. “He’s handsome, Reagen. And he’s  a real nice boy.”

“That’s what mom said,” I recall.

“You’re lucky to have him,” my dad says with a smile.

“You’ve got that right,” I agree.

 

“You know, Reagen,” Ashton tells me. It’s a Thursday afternoon, and we’re sharing the small space on the backdoor steps to his house, each sucking on an off-brand popsicle, courtesy of Ashton’s mom.

“No, I don’t know , Ashton,” I tease. “I’m not psychic. Yet.”

Ashton rolls his eyes and proceeds, “I wanted to show my appreciation to you. You know, like a real man should.”

“if you were a ‘real man’ you’d buy me flowers and beg for my forgiveness on a daily basis,” I retort.

“Shush,” Ashton says. “So I thought to myself, ‘Ashton, what can I do that would impress Reagen?’”

“You want to impress me?” I snort.

“ ‘Reagen is not a shallow gal,’ I told myself,” Ashton rambles. “Sadly, lifting weights won’t work this time. Nor will dousing myself in Axe. Not even  buying her McDonalds is a grand enough gesture for my Reagen. The best way to do that is to write a song.”

“You’re going to sing for me?” I ask in disbelief.

Ashton merely laughs. “I’m no singer.” He sits down, biting a chunk off his popsicle and further staining his lips red. “However, I do dabble in music theory, and I’d be happy to play the fully instrumental piece on piano for you.”

“Sounds amazing,” I admit.

“Let’s go inside then,” Ashton declares, tossing his bare popsicle stick into the yard.

I stand, following him into the house. On our trip to the living room, I make sure to drop my popsicle stick off at a proper receptacle.

Ashton sits down at the piano, popping his fingers. He cracks the bones in his neck as welling before setting his fingers down and playing those first few notes.

It’s a beautiful, yet somber melody with a subtle but looming bass line. Ashton stares down at the keys, completely focused, his eyes not blinking, his brow furrowed, and his tongue out slightly as he concentrates. The song takes about three minutes to complete, and by the end, I am so blown away by not only his talent, but also his devotion that I’m biting back tears.

“What do you think?” Ashton asks softly.

“It’s… that was wonderful, Ashton. Really, all joking aside that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me. I’d love to own a copy of it.”

Ashton grins, seeming pleased with himself. “Maybe I can work something out.”

I timidly touch one of the keys, and question, “Can you show me how to play a little?”

Ashton smiles wider, nodding and agreeing, “Sure! Sit down, let me show you where to put your fingers.”

Ashton teaches me all of the notes, but the only ones I really remember are C, F, and E. He shows me a few simple songs- Mary Had A Little Lamb, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, stuff like that- and I’m able to slowly pound them out. My favorite part of the lesson is the fact that he lays his hands over the top of mine to demonstrate the correct finger movements.

“You’re really good at this,” I compliment, gesturing at the piano. “I must say, I’m impressed.”

“No!” Ashton jokes. “The Great Reagen Bennett is never _impressed,_ only… mildly amused.”

“Really,” I insist. “I… I have no idea how you do it.”

“Hey, I had to be a genius at something,” Ashton points out.

“Ugh!” I groan.

“What?”

“Enough with this ‘I’m stupid’ crap! You’re not!”

“You don’t know that,” Ashton reasons. “You’ve never had a class with me.”

“Yeah, but a grade doesn’t tell me your intelligence. You behavior does, and based off of it, I’d say you’re pretty damn smart. So stop selling yourself short and show some confidence in your skills.”

“No one’s…” Ashton begins. For a moment, I fear I’ve been too hard on him. I’m readying an apology when he continues, “No one’s called me smart in a very long time.”

“Maybe they should start,” I suggest.

Ashton kisses me, moving his hand down my side. I kiss back and drape my arms lazily over his shoulders. He nibbles at the base of my neck gently, and I giggle at the tickle of his stubble against my skin.

“Reagen, I want you to always remember that I love you,” Ashton whispers. “No matter what, alright? Through thick and thin, through muck and mire, through blood and guts, I will wholeheartedly and pathetically love you. Always.”

“You’re not pathetic. You’re incredible,” I reply. “And I love you for it.”

“Right back at ya, kid,” Ashton says with a wink.

That afternoon is what Ashton now refers to as “D-Day Eve”, D-Day being that next morning when Ashton’s car was t-boned on his drive to school.

His legs were severed almost on impact, and he smashed is head pretty well too. This plus some internal bleeding and fractured ribs kept him in the ICU for a while.

It was a hit and run accident. The driver who hit him was drunk and ran a stop sign, slamming into the driver’s side of Ashton’s car. Ashton’s car proceeded to roll, and the results were an unresponsive teenager and a totaled Ashton Mobile.

The first time I went in to see him, he had tubes in his nose and chest, and one of his eyes was swollen shut. His face and body were mangled, bruised and scratched. It hurt pretty bad to see him like that. It hurt even worse when he couldn’t remember my name.

Eventually, gradually, Ashton got better. He went to physical therapy to help with his upper body strength and had a nurse teach him to write his name again. His motor skills were far behind, so his handwriting came out like that of a five year olds’. But nonetheless, everyone was proud of him.

He has mild head trauma; so there are certain aspects from the crash and that morning he can’t recall. Particularly, who it was that took him to the hospital. The doctors tell me that his lack of recollection can be at least partially if not fully contributed to the high loss of blood from his legs.

But there is one moment that Ashton recalls very clearly. He keeps it only too himself and I, in fear that others wouldn’t believe him or even go so far as to call him delusional.

He tells me that he saw an angel. He was in the back of a stranger’s car, mostly unconscious and close to bleeding to death, and he saw an angel.

He goes on to say that his vision had been blurry, but once the angel appeared before him, it was crystal clear. It hurt to look at the angel; who looked like a normal woman, except for the fact that she was levitating and radiating a glowing white light.

He assures that he knew she was an angel immediately. And so he begged her to let him die. He was in an insufferable amount of pain, he was on the brink of death, and even if he lived, he would be handicapped, unable to walk.

She had smiled as she shook her head. She replied, “I can’t do that. You have a duty. A purpose.”

Ashton had responded that he didn’t; that he was a good for nothing high school punk with two dollars to his name.

She had just laughed, and produced a picture of me, projected out in front of Ashton. “You have her. You two need each other. You have a very long road ahead of you. Mostly good, some bad. But that’s the way life works. It doesn’t end here, sweetie.”

With that, Ashton then lost consciousness.

After he tells me this, he lays back quietly.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I still know all the notes to your song,” Ashton tells with a grin. “It’s a privilege to have that.”

“A privilege?” I scoff. I’m touched, of course, but in disbelief. “You’ll never walk again, never swim as well as you did! You’re lucky you can even remember your name, let al0one write it, but your privilege is some song?”

“I wrote words to it,” Ashton continues, smiling wider. “I’ll sing it, if you want.”

“But…”I sigh. I feel guilty for going off on him like I did. He’s been through enough, and I’m sure he’s just as aware of how close to death he really was as I am. “You said you’re no singer.”

“With my girl loving me, I’m anything I want,” Ashton replies.

“I sure am glad your charm is still there,” I admit.

“Hey, Reagen,” Ashton giggles. He shakes one of his legs, fingering the bandages, wrapped over where it tapers off below his knee. “Looks like I’ve finally got me some luggage. I’m a narcissistic bastard, a compulsive liar with no legs, and I am lucky to be in love with the loveliest girl in the world.”

“Now you,” Ashton coaxes, taking my hand.

“I’m…. I’m a rape survivor, a past suicidal teen, and a girl whose heart has been shattered into bloody tangles by some drunken asshole who can’t drive. And… all of this, all of those things really happened,” I say. “It’s hard to believe, but they did.” I squeeze Ashton’s hand as a tear runs own my cheek. “But that’s okay. Everything’s fine, because I’ve got these great parents and this totally obnoxious and arrogant yet indisputably loveable boy to get by. And life is a trash can filled with garbage and coated with slime but… with these guys?” I smile over at Ashton, who’s peeling some adhesive from the bandages off his leg. He notices me smiling, and grins toothily, resting his head on my shoulder.

“I think I can take it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
